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WILLIAM HENRY. 



DRAMATIZED FROM THE BOOKS OF MRS. A. M. DIAZ, 



The William Henry Letters," and "William Henry 
AND his Friends," 



MRS. GEO. L. CHANEY. 



WITH THE PERMISSION OF THE AUTHOR. 




. . s ;.s..ji 



io74 _,co 



'r;ii'i'v3 



BOSTON: 
JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY, 

(late TICKNOR & FIELDS, AND FIELDS, OSGOOD, & CO.) 
1875. 



,v^ 



Entered according to Act of Congress, In the year 1874, by 

JAMES R. OSGOOD AXD COMPANY, 

In the Ofiace of the Librarian of Congress, at TVashington. 



BOSTON : 
BTEEEOTYPED AND PRINTED BY BAND, AVEBY, AND COMPANY. 



In dramatizing Mrs. Diaz's truthful and admirable 
story of New-England life, the dialogue has been taken 
as nearly as jDOSsible from the books, that their sparkle 
and flavor might be preserved. Yet much abridgment 
was necessary; and actors will find that a reading of the 
books will assist them very much in their work. 

C. I. C. 



DRAMATIS PERSONiE. 



child, 



IJncle Jacob Carver, a farmer, 
"W1L1.1AM Henry, his nephew, 
DoRRY, ) Schoolmates of William 

Bobby Short, ) Henry, 
ToivQiY, Uncle Jacob's youngest 

fiTe or six years old. 
Grandma, Uncle Jacob's mother, 
Atjnt Phebe, Uncle Jacob's wife, 
Lucy INIaria, the elder daughter, 
Matilda, the younger daughter, 
Lame Betsey, 
Other Betsey, 



Scenes 1, 4, 5, 6. 
" 2, 3, 4, 5, 6. 



two elderly single ladies. 



6. 
5,6. 



2,6. 

1,4, 
1,4, 
1, 4, 5, 6. 
1, 4, 5, 6. 
1, 4, 5, 6. 

3,6. 



COSTUMES. 



Uncle Jacob. — Dark coat, high dicky, plaid gingham neck- 
handkerchief, shoes, blue woollen socks, pants rather short. 

"VYrLLLAM BLenry. — Scenes 2, 3, and 4, Bed hair, face much 
freckled, flannel blouse or jacket, dark pants. Scenes 5 and 
6, A short coat, and trousers to match, hair less red, face 
very slightly freckled. 

DoRRY. — Scene 2, Blouse waist or jacket, and trousers. 
Scene 6, Coat and pants. 

Bobby Short. — Jacket or blouse, and pants. 

7 



8 COSTUMES. 

TojMMY. — Belted gingliam apron, long stockings, knee-pants, 
laced or buttoned shoes. 

Grandma. — Plain black alpaca gown, rather short, with 
tight sleeves, open a little at the throat, with a jjlain lace 
neckerchief folded inside, and fastened with a small 
brooch; a straight black silk apron; a drab silk handker- 
chief, or nice little square shawl, folded over her shoulders; 
a plain, close-litting lace cap, with a little quilling or frill 
around the face, and tied with naiTow ribbon under the 
chin ; silver spectacles ; prunella shoes ; knitting. 

Aunt Phkbe. — Scenes 1 and 5, Eather gray hair, a pretty 
ninepenny calico di-ess, an apron, linen collar, white dotted- 
muslin cap, of Marie Stuart shape, with quilled border, 
dra^NTi over the hair vvith an elastic cord, and ornamented 
with a small bow of cherry or blue ribbon. Scenes 4 and 
6, Dark dress with plain skirt and basque, pretty cap. 

Lucy JNIaria. — Scenes 1 and 5, A pretty calico dress, bright 
ribbons. Scenes 4 and 6, A scarlet flannel blouse- waist, and 
black alpaca skirt. 

Matilda. — Scenes 1 and 5, A pretty calico dress ; hair in two 
hanging braids. Scenes 4 and 6, Cambric dress, or a blue 
blouse waist, and alpaca skirt. 

Lame Betsey. — Scene 3, Green checked gingham dress, very 
wide muslin collar, dark calico apron, with struigs tied in 
front ; white cap, with deep ruffled border, set back a little 
on the head; crutch. Scene 6, Deep black cloth cloak, large 
black bonnet and veil, brown or black dress, small wlute 
cap set far back on the head, crutch. 

Other Betsey. —Scene 3, Dark calico dress, large dark cali- 
co apron, ruffled cap, set farther forward than Lame Bet- 
sey's. Scene G, Black shawl, broad collar outside it, large 
black bonnet and veil, drab dress, white stockings, low 
morocco shoes, loase drab gloves, tarlatan cap with broad 
sti'ings and little white satin folds. 



PROPERTIES. 



Scene 1. —Framed engraving of Lincoln, war-maps, tin dish- 
pan, towels, waiter, dishes, dish of cake, light stand, can- 
dles, basket of mending, newspaper; two letters for Uncle 
Jacob's pocket. 

Scene 2.— Marbles, string, pieces of wood, knife, top, foot- 
rule, jackstones, &c., for Bobby Short's pocket; baU for 
William Henry; knife and stick forDorry; William Hen- 
ry's letter. 

Scene 3.— Shears, caUco apron, comb, huge pumpkm-pie, or 
its equivalent, peppermints, carpet-bag. 

Scene 4. — Bandbox with dress-cap, harmonicum in a little 
box, cake, pies, doughnuts, &c., candles, carpet-bag, bib, 
high-chair, cup for Tommy to break. 

Scene 5. — Paper and pencil for drawing, bonnet, and mil- 
linery articles, bowl of raisins, chopping-tray, knife, and 
meat, dish of apples and knife, newspaper. 

Scene 4. —Trunk, plate of cookies, letter, socks, box of salve, 
roU of Imen, kettle, Lucy Maria's letter, comb and paper. 



WILLIAM HEH"ET. 



SCENE I. 

UNCLE Jacob's house. 



A framed engraving of Lincoln, and war-maps., 
on the wall. A table at the hack of the stage, with 
dishes, tin cUshpan, towels, waiter, and plate 
of cake. Little old-fashioned table ivith basket 
of mending. Uncle Jacob in arm-chair, read- 
ing newspaper. Aunt Phebe mending Tommy's 
clothes. Tommy rolled in a shawl, seated in a 
cushioned rocking-chair,-^ very old-fashioned, — 
which Grandma afterward occupies. Three other 
chairs. Two letters in Uncle Jacob's pocket. 

Tommy. Mother, hain't yon clnt my tloze most 
mended ? I'm orful tired a-settin' here with nothin' 
on,' thout it's a shawl! 'Sides, this old rockin'- 
chair 's so tippery I'se afraid I'll tnmmul out ! Sa\^ 
mother ! I won't dump off picket-fence agin if you'll 

let me go ! 

11 



12 WILLIAM HENRY. 

Au7it Phebe. No, Tommy. You are so careless, 
something must be done, and I don't know but keep- 
ing you still is about the worst punishment such a 
restless piece can have ; so sit still, or 3'ou'll tip 
over. 

(ToMJiY cries. Girls rattle dishes. Uncle Jacob 
reads j^cqjer.) 

Uncle Jacob {reading neivspaper). "Our boys 
slept on the battle-field that night. Just before day- 
break a contraband came to headquarters with the 
information that a strong force of Confederates was 
rapidl}^ approaching." {Great clatter of dishes.) 

Lucy Maria. Oh ! Now, father, won't you read 
that last sentence over again? I never did see such 
slippery suds ! 

Uncle Jacob. "Just before daj^break a contra- 
band came to headquarters with the information that a 
strong force of Confederates was rapidl}' approaching. 
Our boj^s sprang to arms, tired as they were, and" — 

Tommy. Mother, I want a cake ! Plimm}' piece 
cake, mother? 

3fatilda. Do hush up. Tommy! You've had 
enough supper for six boj's of 3'our size ! 

Tommy. Hain't neither ! Hungiy, so ! 

Uncle Jacob. "Our boj^s immediately sprang 
to arms, tired as they were, and" — 

Tommy. Father, I'm hungry ! Piece of cake ? 

Uncle J. {Jumps iip^ and takes two pieces of cake 



\\t:lliam heney. 13 

off the table ; gives TowMy one, and eats one). 
Shame to let a boy go hungry where there's plenty 
of cake ! 

Lucy Maria. A word for him, and two for your- 
self! -Tommy got his liking for cake and plums 
natural enough. 

Matilda. There ! I believe the dishes are all 
done at last. For a small family, we do have the 
greatest lot ! 

Lucy Maria. Small family ! 

Matilda. And now let's take out our work, and 
go to sewing ; and you've got to go to bed, Mr. 
Tommy. {Aunt Phebe folds up Tommy's clothes, 
and takes Tommy out of the rocking-chair. Ma- 
tilda lights candles, puts one on little, and one on 
large table; and Lucy Maria puts away dishes.) 

Tommy. I don't want ter go ter bed ! Boo hoo ! 
Hain't had enough to eat ! 

Matilda. Boo hoo ! And nobody ever saw the 
time 3'ou did ! 

Aunt P. Hush, Matilda ! Growing boys are 
always hungry. But, Tommy, there's reason in all 
things. Now say, ' ' Good-night " to your father, and 
prove that j^ou mean to be a good boy by going to 
bed without a fuss. 

Tommy {ruefidly) , Good-night, father. 
Uncle J. Good-night, my son. "Early to bed 
and early to rise makes a man healthy and wealthy 
and wise." 2 



14 WILLIAM HENRY. 

Tommy. Then why don't you go now, father ? 

Uncle J. Why? Because I — Good -night, 
my son. 

{Exit Aunt Phebe hastily with Tommy. Enter 
grandma ivith knitting -work.) 

Lucy Maria. Wh}^, grandma ! why didn't you 
come in before? You must have been lonesome 
sitting all by yourself. {Places rocking-chair for 
Grandma k . front . ) 

Grandma {sits doivn). Well, I was. I got to 
missing Billy so ! Bill^y is so j^oung to be off 
to school alone, and I'm so afraid something will 
happen to him ! 

Uncle Jacob. Had to send him away to keep him. 
Grandmother was spoiling him. 

Lucy Maria. Well, I s'pose 'twas so ; I know 
it was so : but we did hate to have Billy go ! 

Uncle Jacob. Where's Towser now ? He didn't 
come to meet me to-night. 

Grandma. He's got hold of Billy's old boots, 
and you can't get him away from them. He set a 
great deal by Billy. I haven't put 'em away yet. 
{Sighs.) 

{Enter Aunt Phebe. All take their sewing^ and sit 
down.) 

Aunt Phebe. Well, mother, you are looking 
sober to-night. 

Grandma. I feel verj' anxious about Billy. I 



WILUAM HENRY. 15 

told Mm he'd better write every day, so I could be 
sure just how he was, for if well one day he mightn't 
be the next. 

Lucy Maria. O grandma ! that's too bad ! 'Tis 
cruel to ask a boy to write every day. 

Aunt Phebe. I wouldn't worry, mother. Billy's 
always been a well child. 

Grandma. These strong constitutions, when 
they do take any thing, 'tis apt to go hard with 'em. 

Aunt Fhebe. He's taken pretty much every thing 
that can be given to him already. 

Grandma. I suppose they'll put clothes enough 
on his bed. I can't bear to think of his sleeping 
cold, nights. 

U7icle Jacob {jocosely) . Perhaps they have blan- 
kets in that part of the country. 

Grandma. But people are not always thoughtful 
about it. I really hope he'll take care of himself, 
and not be climbing up everywhere. Houses and 
trees were bad enough ; but now they have gymnastic 
poles, and every thing else to tempt boys off the 
ffround. Oh, dear ! When we think of every thing 
that might happen to boys, 'tis a wonder one of them 
ever lives to grow up. Isn't there a pond near by? 

Lucy Maria. Oh, yes ! Crooked Pond. That's 
what gives the name to the school, — Crooked Pond 
School. 

Grandma. I hope he won't be whipped. 



16 WILLIAM HEKllY. 

Aunt Pliehe. Whipped ! I should like to see awy 
one whipping our Bilh' ! 

Matilda. O mother, I shouldn't ! 

Grandma. 'Tisn't an impossible thing. He's 
quick. Billy's good-hearted, but he's quick. He 
might speak up. I gave him charge how to behave. 
But what's a boy's memory' ? I don't suppose he'll 
remember half the things I told him. I meant to 
have told him again, the last thing, not to sta}^ out 
in the rain, where there's nobody to see to his clothes 
being dried. 

U^icle Jacob. Well, if a bo}^ doesn't know enough 
to go into the house when it rains, he'd better come 
home. 

Aunt Pliebe. What I hope is, that he'll keep 
himself looking decent. 

Lucy Maria. If. he does, then it will be the first 
time. The poor child never seemed to have much 
luck about keeping spruced up. If anybody here 
ever saw William Henr}^ with no buttons off, and 
both shoes tied up, and no rip an3'where, let 'em raise 
their hands. 

Grandma {looking sadly around, over her sjjec- 
tacles ; sighs) . Bill}' always was hard on his clothes ; 
but, if he only keeps well, I won't say a word. 

Uncle Jacob. Now, mother, I shouldn't dare to 
sa}' how man}' times you've been frightened to death 
about Billy. Many and many a time you've been 



WILLIAM HE^^lY. 17 

sure lie was lost or drowned, or run over, or carried 
off, and never'd come back alive. But he's always 
managed to come out straight at last. If all the 
wony that's worried in this world was all piled up 
together, 'twould make a mountain ; but, if all of 
it that needn't be worried was knocked off, what 
was left wouldn't be bigger than a huckleberry-hill. 
There's one thing that makes me entirely willing to 
trust William Hemy away ; and that is, he's alwaj's 
been a boy of principle. I have watched him closely, 
and I've noticed that he has a kind of pride in him 
that won't allow him to lie or equivocate in any way. 

Aunt Phebe. That's true : true enough ! Billy 
don't always look fit to be seen ; but he isn't deceit- 
ful : I'll say that for him. 

Matilda. When he went to our school, and was 
in the class below me, and there was a fuss among 
the boys, and all of them told it a different way, the 
teacher used to say she vrould ask William Henry, 
and then she could tell just how it happened. 

Uncle Jacob. He couldn't have a better name 
than that. 

Grandma. But I do wonder why we don't get a 
letter from him. Jacob, did 3'ou go to the post- 
office to-day? 

Lucy Maria. Now, just as likely as not, father's 
had a letter in his pocket all the tmie : 'twould be 
just like him. {Dives at his coat-joocket, and pulls 



18 TVTLLIAJVI HENP.Y. 

out two letters.) My goodness sakes alive ! If 
here ain't two, both from William Henry! (Gives 
them to Grandma, ivJio ope^is one). 

Uncle Jacob. Well, now, ain't that queer ! I've 
had something on mj mind all along, and I've been 
a-tryin' and a-tryin' to think what it was. And it 
, was them letters ! 

Grandma (gives the letter to Auxt Phebe) . Phebe, 
I think 3'ou'd better read this. M}^ eyesight isn't as 
good as it was once. (Puts on her glasses,, draws 
close to her,, and looks her in the face.) Now, Phebe, 
read loud, and do speak every word plain. 

Aunt Phebe (reads) . 

My Dear Grandmother. 

I think that the school that I have come to is a very 
good school. We have dumplings. I've tied the 
pills that 3'ou gave me, in case of feeling bad, in 
the toe of my cotton stocking thaf s lost the mate of 
it. The mince-pies they have here are baked with- 
out there being any plums put into them ; so please 
need I say, " No, I thank j^ou, ma'am," to 'em when 
the}" come round ? If they don't agree, shall I take 
the pills or the drops ? Or was it the hot flannels, — 
and how many? I've forgot about being shivery. 
Was it to eat roast onions? No, I guess not. I 
guess it was a wet band tied round m}" head. Please 
write it down, because 3'ou told me so many things 



WILLIAINI HENHY. 19 

I can't remember. How can anybody tell when any- 
body is sick enough to take things? Don't let the 
cow eat my peach-tree. Dorry Baker says the 
cherries have peach-stones in 'em here. In a month 
my birthday will be here. How funny 'twill seem to 
be eleven when I've been ten so long ! I don't skip 
over any button holes in the morning now, so my 
jacket comes out even. Why didn't you tell me I 
had a red head? But I can run faster than any of 
' them that are no bigger than I am, and some that 
aTe. AVe learn to sing. He says I've a good deal 
of voice, but I've forgot what the matter is with it. 
We go up and down the scale and beat time. The 
last is the best fun. The other is hard to do. But 
if I only could get up, I guess 'twould be easy to 
come down. He thinks something ails my ear. I 
thought he said I hadn't any at aU. What have a 
feller's ears to do with singing, or scaling up and 
down? Has Uncle Jacob sold the bossy calf yet? 
There's a boy here they call Bossy Calf, because he 
cried for his mother. He has been here three days. 
He sleeps with me. And every night after he has 
laid his head down on the pillow, and the lights are 
blown out, I begin to sing and to scale up and down 
so the boys can't hear him cry. Dorry Baker and 
three more boys sleep in the room we two sleep m. 
When they begin to thi'ow bootjacks at me to make 
me stop my noise, it scares him and he leaves off 
crying. 



20 WTLLIAJM HEXEY. 

One thing more the boj's plague me for besides 
my head. Freckles. Dorry held up an orange 
3'esterday. " Can you see it?" ssijs he. "To be 
sure," saj^s I. " Didn't know as you could see 
through 'em," ssijs he — meaning freckles. Dear 
Grandmother, I have cried once, but not in bed. 
For fear of their laughing and of the bootjacks ; 
but away in a good place under the trees. A shagg}^ 
dog came along and licked my face. But, O ! He 
did make me remember Towser, and cry all over 
again. But don't tell, for I should be ashamed. I 
wish the boj's would like me. Freckles come thicker 
in summer than the}' do in winter. 

Your affectionate grandchild, 

William Henry. 

Aunt Phebe (holds the letter, and icipes her 
eyes; passes the letter to Grandma, ivho puts on 
her glasses, and looks it all over) . The dear bo}^ ! 
To think of his getting up that way of hushing that 
little bo}^, so the others wouldn't laugh at him ! 

Lucy Maria (takes the other letter from Grand- 
ma). Now, mother, I'm going to read the other 
one. I'm afraid it will hurt 3'our e^^es : they look 
red. (Heads.) 

My Dear Grandmother. 

I do what 3'ou told me. You told me to bite my 
lips and count ten before I spoke, when the boys 



WILLIAM HENRY. 21 

plague me, because I'm a spunky boy. But doing it 

so much makes my lips sore, so now I go head over 

heels sometimes, till I'm out of breath. Then I 

gan't say any thing. This is the account you asl^ed 

me for, of all I've bought this week. 

Slippery elm, 1 cent. 
Cornball, 1 cent. 

Gum, 1 cent. 

The Two Betseys, they keep ver}^ good things to 
sell. They are two old women that live in a little 
hut with two rooms to it, and a ladder to go up 
stairs by, through a hole in the wall. One Betse}^, 
she is lame, and keeps still, and sells the things to 
us, sitting down. The other Betsey, she can run, 
and keeps a yard-stick to drive awa}^ boj^s with. 
For they have apple-trees in their garden. But she 
never touches a boy if she does catch him. They 
have hens and sell eggs. The woman that I go to 
have my buttons sewed on to is a very good woman. 
She gave me a cooky with a hole in the middle, and 
told me to mind and not eat the hole. Coming back, 
I met Benjie, and he looked so sober I offered it to 
him as quick as I could. But it almost made him 
cry ; because, he said, his mother made her cookies, 
with a hole in the middle. But when he gets ac- 
quainted he won't be so bashful, and he'll feel better 
then. 

I've launched my boat. She's the biggest one 
in school. Dorry broke a bottle on her and 



22 WILUAM HENRY. 

christened her the " General Grant." The boys 
gave three cheers and Benjie sent up his new 
kite. It's a ripper of a kite with a gi^eat gilt star on 
it, that's got eight prongs. The master was walking 
by, and stopped to see the launching. When he 
smiles, he looks just as pleasant as any thing. He 
patted me on inj cheek, and says he, "You ought to 
have called her the ' Filing Bill}',' " and then he 
walked on. "What does the Flying Billy mean?" 
says I. "It means 3'ou," sa^'s Dorry ; "and it 
means that you can run fast, and he likes you. K a 
boy can run fast, and knows his multiplication-table, 
and won't lie — he likes him." But how can such a 
great man like a small boy? 

From your affectionate grandchild, 

William Henry. 

P.S. — When the boys laugh at me, I laugh too. 
That's a good wa3^ 

P.S. — If 3^ou send a cake, send quite a large 
one. I like the kind Uncle Jacob does. Aunt 
Phebe knows. 

Aunt Phebe. Bless his heart, he shall have it ! 

JJyicle Jacob. Put a good lot of frosting on it, 
and plenty of plums in it. Now, don't be mean on 
plums. 

Matilda. As if mother ever was mean about any 
thing ! 



WILLIAM HENRY. 23 

Uncle Jacob. I was afraid she might be persuaded 
that plums were not good for boys. They are. 
They are very good. 



24 WILLIjUI henky. 



SCENE II. 

HALL IN THE SCHOOLHOUSE. 

William Henry, Dorry, and Bobby Short, with 
hats on. Bobby pwZZs a great many things out 
of his pocket, and comes to jackstones, then plays 
with them. William Henry has a ball, Dorry 
a knife and stick. 

Dorry. 1 say, William Henry, that was real 
plucky of you to stand up there, and face the music, 
when the master asked which boy it was that ran 
thi'ough the Two Betseys' j^ard, and made such a 
piece of work of it. You could have sneaked out of 
it just as easy ! None of us would have told. 

William Henry. Catch me sneaking out of any 
thing, Dorry Baker ! 'Tain't my kind. I was 
ashamed, I own up. But my folks say, " K truth is 
a loaded cannon, walk straight up to it,'* or some- 
thing of that kind, and I've set out to do it ; and I 
tell 3'OU what, Dorr}- Baker, when I set out for a 
thing, I ain't going to be beat ! {Doubles up his fist, 
and " squares off.'') 



WILLIAM HENEY. 25 

Bobby SJiort. Bully for you, William Henry ! 

Dorry. But, Billy, how did you manage to kick 
up such a fuss in such a little while ? 

William Henry. Why, you see, when you and I 
started from the pond, opposite ways, to run and 
see who would get home first, I cut across the Two 
Betseys' garden. But I don't see how I did so 
much hurt in just once cutting across. I knew 
something cracked : that was the sink - spout I 
jumped down on, off the fence. There was a board 
I hit, that had huckleberries spread out on it to drj^ 
They went into the rain-water hogshead. / didn't 
know any huckleberries were spread out on that 
board. I meant to go between the rows, but guess 
I stepped on a few beans. My wrist got hurt dread- 
fully by my getting myself tripped up in a squash- 
vine ; and while I was down there a bumble-bee came 
along, and stung me on my chin. I stepped on a 
little chicken, for she ran the way I thought she 
wasn't going to. I don't remember whether I shut 
the gate, or not, but guess not ; for the pig got 
in, and went to rooting before Lame Betsey saw 
him, and Other Betsey had gone somewhere. But I 
got home first, anyhow ! But I am sorry ! Just 
think what master said about Lame Betsey getting 
lame saving a little bo3''s life when the house was on 
fire, a-jumping out of the window with him ! And 
then he said there's as much as five dollars' worth of 
3 



26 WILLIAISI HENRY. 

damage done. "Well, I've sold my football, and 
my brass sword, and my pocket-book, and I'm bound 
to pay 'em, and — I'll go now. You fellows stay 
here till I come back, quicker'n lightning. {Runs 
out.) 

Bobby Short. Tell yer what, I like William 
Henry Carver ! But I'm glad I haven't got to face 
the Two Betseys. 

Dorry. So do I like William Henry. He's going 
home with me to make a visit, just as soon as he 
gets a letter from his grandmother letting him. I 
wrote to my sister to ask my mother to let me ask 
him to go home with me ; and she said " Yes, only 
wait a week first," because the house was just got 
ready to have a great party, and she couldn't stand 
two muddy-shoed bo3's. Won't we have a bully 
time? (Bobby Short goes to the window^ and looks 
out ivhile DoRRY is talking.) 

Bobby Short. I sa}^, Dorry, come here ! William 
Henry's just gone into the Two Betseys' shop. I 
can see Lame Betsey a-sitting at the window, and her 
cap going back and forth as she talks. Can't you? 
Ain't he catching it ? 

. Dorry. Poh ! they won't scold. "Other "looks 
kind of fierce sometimes, but she's as mild as a 
moonbeam when a feller owns up. I know. I've 
heard about it. 

Bobby Short. I say, who's that Lucy Maria 
Billy's always talking about? 



WILLIAM HENRY. 27 

Dorry. Lucj^ Maria ? that's his grown-up cousin 
at home. She's real funny, and cooks, and washes, 
and irons, and makes Billy's clothes, and is always 
dressed up in a pretty gown, and drawing pictures 
afternoons ; always up to something, Billy says, and 
ready for a lark. 

Bobby Short. I should like to know Lu.cy Maria. 
Who's Matilda? 

Dorry. She's his cousin too; goes to school; 
plagues Billy awfully. His grandmother worries 
about him dreadfully. 

{Enter William Henry, out of breatJi, with a 
letter.) 

William Henry. Here's my letter, and now I 
can go ! 

Dorry. Why, does she say so? 

William Henry. Hain't read it yet, but of course 
she will. About the Two Betsej^s, now, I tell you ! 
When I asked how much money was to be paid, 
they said they shouldn't take any money ; but if I 
would saw some wood for them, and do an errand 
now and then, thej^ should be very glad. And Lame 
Betsey gave me something to put on my wrist to 
cure it. 

Dorry {throwing up his hat) . Hurrah ! Three 
cheers for the Two Betseys ! 

Bobby Short. That's six. 

Dorry. There are the boys on the playground. 



28 WILLIA3I HEXRY. 

I'm going to pass round the hat, for we all owe them 
something. They've got to take the money, any 
way. 

Bobby Short. And let me carry it to them ! 

Dorry, Well, come on ! 

William Henry. Here ! I want to put in my 
money! {Exit Dorry ^ and Bobby Short .) {Alone.) 
Well ! Now I guess 1 will read grandmother's letter, 
and see what she says about it. {Beads.) 

My dear Boy, — 

We are willing 3'ou should go to see Dorrj^ Your 
Uncle Jacob has been past his father's place, and 
he says there's been a pretty sum of money laid 
out there. Behave well. Wear 3'our best clothes. 
Your Aunt Phebe has bought a book for her girls, 
that tells them how to behave. It is for bo3's too, 
or for anybod}^ I shall give you a little advice, and 
mix some of the book in with it. 

Never interrupt. Some children are always putting 
themselves forward when grown people are talking. 
Put "sir" or "ma'am" to every thing you say. 
Make a bow when introduced. If you don't know 
how, try it at a looking-glass. Black j'our shoes, 
and toe out if you possibly can. I hope you know 
enough to say "thank 3'ou," and when to sa}- it. 
Take 3'our hat off, without fail, and step softh', and 
wipe your feet. Be sure and have some woman look 



WILLIAM HENRY. 29 

at 3^ou before you start, to see that you are all right. 
Behave properly at table. The best wa}^ will be to 
watch and see how others do. But don't stare. 
There is a way of looking without seeming to look, 
— a sidewaj's wa3\ 

An3^body with common-sense will soon learn how 
to conduct properly ; and even if jou. should make 
a mistake, when trying to do 3'our best, it isn't worth 
while to feel verj- much ashamed. Wrong actions 
are the ones to be ashamed of. And let me say 
now, once for all, never be ashamed because 5'our 
uncle is a farmer, and works with his hands. Your 
uncle's a man to be proud of : he's kind to the poor ; 
he's pleasant in his famil}- ; he's honest in his busi- 
ness ; he reads high kind of books ; he's a kind, 
noble Christian man; and Dorry's father can't be 
more than all this, let him own as much property as 
he ma3\ I mention this because young folks are apt 
to think a great deal more of a man that has mone3^ 
From your loving 

Grandmother. 

P.S. — Be sure and not spend 3'our money foolish- 
ly. Take your overcoat on your arm. When you 
come awa}', bid good-b}^, and sa}" that ^'ou have had 
a good time, if you have had : not without. 

William Henry. Well, now ! Everj'body tells 
boys not to spend money ; but if they knew how 

3* 



30 . WILLIAM HENRY. 

maii}^ things boj's want, and every thing tasted so 
good, I believe they would spend money themselves. 
{Enter Dorry^ and Bobby Short.) 

Dorry. Hurrah ! Hurrah ! Hurrah ! Got five 
dollars and fifty cents ! Ain't a bo}' that didn't put 
some in. 

Bobby Short. Here, give us the hat, please. Tm 
to take it to the Two Betseys. 

Dorry. What does your grandmother say? 

William Henry. Sa3's I can go, onl}' to have 
some woman look me over. Now, who under the 
sun — 

Dorry. Why, go to the Two Betseys ! They'll 
do. 

William Henry. So the}' will ! And I promised 
to go and see 'em to-morrow afternoon, any way. All 
right. I'll go to the Two Betseys first, and meet 
you at the station. That do? {Bell rings.) Yes. 
All right ! Come on, school ! [^Exeunt. 



WILLIAM HENRY. 31 



SCENE III. 

THE TWO BETSEYS' HOUSE. 

A little round three-legged table ^ covered with a small 
white tablecloth, and various dishes. " Lame 
Betsey" sits knitting with a crutch at her side. 
'^ Other Betsey" is setting the supper-table, and 
runs out and in, A rap at the door. "Other" 
opens it, and William Henry walks in. 

Other Betsey. Wh}^, how do 3'ou do, William 
Henery ? We're glad to see you ! 

Lame Betsey. We're proper glad to see you. 
How do you do ? 

Other Betsey {takes his hat) . Now, ain't you cold ? 
I've got an excellent good fire in the other room. 
Do come in, and set right up to it, and get warm ! 

William Henry. First rate. No, I ain't cold, 
thank you. I said I'd come round this afternoon 
before Dorry and I went off, and so here I am. 
But my grandmother wrote that I must have some 
woman look at me before I went off, so's to be sure 
I was all right. 



32 WILLIAM HEKRY. 

Lame Betsey, A very proper thing to do. Your 
grancLmother's a very sensible woman. 

William Henry. Well, will 3'ou ? 

Two Betseys. Will we what ? 

William Henry. Why, look at me, and see if 
I'm all right, and fixed up spruce enough. 

Other Betsey. Well, naow, Betsey- ! He wants us 
to look at him ! Now, did 3'ou ever ? 

Lame Betsey. Well, no, I never did ! Here, Bet- 
se}^, my spectacles, there on the mantle-tree shelf! 
Well, now, I never did. {Both put on spectacles^ and 
walk admiringly around William Henry.) 

Other Betsey. Beautiful ! You do loo'k beautiful, 
William Henery ! 

Lame Betsey. Yes, William Hener}^, I'm sure 3'ou 
do look beautiful. Now, William Hener}^, walk off! 
(William Henry w;aZA;s off.) Make a bow ! (Wil- 
liam Henry botes; she ivcdks up to him.) Stop a 
minute, there's a mite of lint ! Now just stand up 
there, and make another bow ! (William Henry 
makes another boiv.) 

Other Betsey. Beautiful! Now walk off slow. (He 
walks off. They nudge each other. ) 

Lame Betsey. Just as if he'd been to a dancing- 
school all his life ! 

Other Betsey. Make one more bow, William 
Henery. 

Lame Betsey. Seems to me his hair is a leetle 
too long : turn round, William Henery. 



WILLIAM HENRY. • 33 

Other Betsey (William Henry turns). Yes, 'tis 
a leetle mite too long : 'tain't quite even. 

Lame Betsey. Now, I used to be the beater for 
cutting hair ; and, if 3^ou'll just get me my tailorin' 
shears, Betsey, I'll see what I can do. Now set 
right up, William Henery. There ! Let me put 
my apron right round your neck : it's an old one, 
but you won't mind. (William Henry sneezes as 
she ties it around his neck.) Now, Betsey, you keep 
watch to see when it's even. {She cuts with an old, 
squeaky pair of shears. William Henry sneezes.) 
M}^ gracious goodness ! did I cut you, William 
Henery ? 

William Henry. No, ma'am. 

Other Betsey. You mustn't sneeze when the 
scissors are so close to you. A leetle more, Betsey. 

Lame Betsey (stands off to look, comes back, and 
clips : William Henry sneezes) . Why, what a cold 
3'ou have got, William Henery ! Betsey, we'd better 
make him some hoarhound tea. 

William Henry. Oh, no ! I haven't a cold. 
(Sneezes again.) Those are jolly shears, only they 
don't stop themselves very easy. 

Other Betsey. Well, they've been a-layin' up in 
the cupboard a good while, and I guess they want 
oilin'. 

Lame Betsey. Seems to me that ain't quite even. 
Now, my mother used to keep a quart-bowl to cut her 



34 WILLIAM HENRY. 

boys' hair by. She clapped it over their heads, 
and then clipped all round by it, even. (William 
Henry sneezes.) 

Other Betsey. Why, William Henery , I do feel con- 
cerned about you. What doos make you sneeze so ? 

William Henry. Well — I — guess — this apron- 
has-been- where-snuff-was ! {Sneezes twice.) 

Lame Betsey. Lor' ! well, I shouldn't wonder ! 
And I s'pose you ain't used to it. Now, it never 
makes me sneeze. 

William Henry. Let me jump up, and I'll shake 
myself out even. {Jumps up, and shakes himself.) 

Other Betsey (combs his hair out, and parts it) . 
I guess that'll do : it looks better. Now you jist set 
down a little while, and I'll run out and shake this 
apron ; and then we want you to sta}^ to tea with us. 

\^Exit with apron. 

William Henry. Why, I guess I must be going. 

Lame Betsey. Oh, no ! there's plenty of time, 
William Henery ; and Betsey, she is set upon having 
you stay to tea, and she's made a pie a-pm^pose. 

William Henry. Well, I guess I will, then, if 
you want me to. 

Other Betsey {coming in). I put my tea down 
to draw when you came in, William Henery; so 
supper is all ready. Set right up, William Henery. 
Come, Betsey. {Places chairs. They all sit at the 
table.) I had to put the things on in saucers, 



WILLIAM HENRY. 35 

William Ilenery, because there isn't room unless 
we do. We've got a big table in the other room, 
and I suppose we might have set that out ; but that 
table hasn't been set out for fourteen years, — eh, 
Betsey? Fourteen years, ain't it, since that table 
has been set out? 

Lame Betsey {shaking her head) . Fourteen years, 
Betsey. 

Other Betsey . And I thought this might do . Have 
some sausages, William Henery, and some ban- 
nocks. Betsey, help William Henery to the butter. 
I'll have some flapjacks in a minute. Now, you must 
eat a good deal, and not go by us, 'cause our 
appetites are nothhig to judge a growin' boy by. 
(Goes into the other room with a plate.) 

William Henry. Why, there's supper enough for 
forty ; and ain't it good ! {Eats heartily.) 

Lame Betsey. Now, do you think so ! Be careful 
which handle of the sugar-bowl you take hold of, 
'cause that one's glued on. We might have taken 
down our other chiny. 

William Henry {mouth full) . Yes'm. 
Other Betsey {entering) . Now, here's some flap- 
jacks, William Henery. {Puts them on his plate.) 
Lame Betsey. And here's a cup of tea for you. 
William Henry. Oh, I can't bear tea ! 
Lame Betsey. Why, you can't? Now, it's very 
warmin' and restin', and you'd better. 



36 WILLIAIM HENRY. 

Other Betsey. Yes, 3'011'd better have some tea. 
I don't know what I should do without my tea. I 
couldn't eat a meal of victuals without it. I'll put 
in plenty of sugar. {Puts in jive or six spoonfuls.) 

William Henry. There, there's enough, thank 
you! 

Lame Betsey. Take some more butter, William 
Henery. Now, don't be scared of it : there's more 
in the butterj- ! 

Other Betsey. Yes, plenty more in the butter}^, 
William Henery. 

Lame Betsey. You'll have to be a leetle careful about 
the spoon-holdm- : the bottom of it's been off once. 
Now, do take a little more of this cake ! (Puts it on 
his plate.) 

Other Betsey. I guess I'll cut the pie now. (Goes 
to an immense pump)kin-pie on a chair.) 

William Henry. George ! if that don't beat all the 
pies ! 

Lame Betsey. How is Dorr3% William Henery? 
He is a smart fellow. I wish he was here. 

William Henry. So do I ; and so would he, I 
guess, if he could see that pie ! 

Other Betsey. Well, I thought 'twould be a good 
time to make one when we were going to hq,ve com- 
pany. 

William Henry. I say ! Please, may I measure 
it? {Takes out his rule.) 



WILLIAM HENRY. 37 

Other Betsey. Certainly ! It's just such a kind of 
a pie as my mother used to make. I thought I might 
as well make a largo one, so's to be sure to have 
enough. 

William Henry. Two feet across, four inches 
thick. Pumpkin. Don't 1 wish Dorry was here ! 

Other Betsey {gives him the pie) . I guess you'll 
have to take your plate in 3'om' hand, for there won't 
be room. 

William Henry. Excuse my eating so fast ; but I 
told Dorry I'd meet him at the station, and its 'most 
time to be there. Whj^ {looking at clock) ^ I must 
start this minute ! {Jumps up, picks up satchel 
and hat, and returns for his pie.) Good-by, good- 
by ! I've had a tip-top time. 

Other Betsey. Wait a minute, William Henery. 
{Goes to cupboard.) There, there's a few pepper- 
mints to eat on the way. 

Lame Betsey. Now, be sure, William Hener}", 
not to run your head out, and get it knocked off in 
the cars ! 

William Henry. No, ma'am. 

Other Betsey. And don't get out till you stop 
going. 

Lame Betsey. And beware of pickpockets, William 
Henery : I've heard that the}' were very thick in the 
cars. Do beware of pickpockets ! 
4 



38 WILLIAM HENRY. 



SCENE IV 

UNCLE Jacob's house. 

Grandma knitting; Aunt Phebe sewing ; Matilda 
making tatting ; Lucy Maria drawing ; Uncle 
Jacob reading newspaper. 

Grandma. I do wonder why William Henry 
don't come ! ( Walks to the ivindow^ looks out with 
a hand each side of her face., opens outside door., and 
listens.) I must go and look at the kitchen clock 
again. {Steps out of the room. Returns with 
William Henry following tiptoe with his finger to 
his lips, smiling.) Well, I do hope there hasn't 
any thing happened to the cars ! 

William Henry. I hope so too ! {Jumps squarely 
in front 0/ Grandma, ^u/io walks into his arms.) 

Grandma. Why, sakes alive ! William Henry, 
is that you ? 

William Henry. It just is ! I do hope nothing 
has happened to those cars. They were such good 
cars ! 

Grandma. You scamp, you ! {All flock around 



WILLIAM HENRY. 39 

Billy, laughing and talking. Tommy enters^ drag- 
ging William Henry's carpet-bag.) 

Tommy. How long going ter stay, Billy ? 

William Henry. 'Most a week. Tommy ; and it 
don't take long to stay at home a week. 

Uncle Jacob. That's so ! Come, let's be doing 
something ! 

Aunt Pliebe. That means, let's be eating some- 
thing ! Come, girls, let's be putting the things on the 
table. Billy, how tall and spruce you do look ! 
Poor gi^andmother, she's losing her little Billy ! 

\_Exit A\]iiT Phebe and Lucy Maria. 

Uncle Jacob. But what's her loss is his gain ! 
I speak to sit next the frosted cake. Where's 
Tommy ? 

William Henry {brings a bandbox) . I've brought 
you something, grandma. {He takes out Ms jack- 
knife, and cuts the string of the bandbox.) 

Grandma. For me, William Henry ! Why, how 
came you to thinli of bringing something tome? 
(William Henry takes out a very elaborate dress-cap, 
puts it on his fist, and turns it round and round.) 

William Henry. It's a new cap, like Dorry's 
gTandma's. Now sit down, and we'll try it on. 

Grandma. Lor' ! How should I look in a fash- 
ionable cap like that? 

William Henry. Well, yo\x just sit down, grand- 
ma, and we'll see. (Grandma sits down.) Come 



40 WILLTAT^r HENRY. 

here, Matilda, and see which is the front side of 
this. {Takes off old cap ^ puts other partly on^ and 
tips it forward.) 

Uncle Jacob. You tip it down too much. 

William Henry. We'll turn it round. 

Matilda. 'Tis upside down. \_Exit. 

Uncle Jacob. Now 'tis one-sided, like the colt's 
blinders. 

Grayidma. 'Twas never meant for mj^ head. 

Uiicle Jacob. Send for Phebe ! Phebe ! {Enter 
Phebe and the girls laughing^ with dishes^ <&c.) 

Aunt Phebe. Why, w^hatin thew^orld are 3'ou doing 
to ,yom' grandmother? A regular milliner's cap, 
as I breathe ! Well done, grandmother ! Here, let 
me give it a twist. It's hind side before ! What do 
boys know, or men either ? What are all these kinds 
of strings for? 

William Henry. The great ones to hang down, 
the little ones to tie up. {The girls pick the bows 
apart ^ and touch up the ruffles.) 

Grandma. Now, Phebe ! Now, girls ! Now, Billy ! 

Aunt Phebe. And, " Now, grandma ! " There, 
fold your hands together. Don't lean back hard : 
'twill jam easy. Now see, girls ! Isn't she a beauty ? 

William Henry. She's the prettiest grandmother 
there is going ; her face is just as round and smiling I 

Tommy. Ought ter have her pokerdaff taken. 

Aunt Phebe. Now you sit still, grandmother. 



WILLIAM HENRY. 41 

Now, girls ! ( They draw two tables together^ spread 
on the doth, set on the dishes; then bring in loaves 
of plum-cake, pies ^ doitghnids, &c. ; then they set a 
row of lights down the middle.) 

Tommy (drags William Henry's carpet-bag up 
to hifii) . I say, Billy, didn't 3^011 bring me any thing ? 

William Henry. You ! Wlij^, what makes 3 011 
suppose I should bring }^ou home any thing ? S'pose 
I could remember anybody as small as 3'ou are ? 

Tommy. Ain't small ! Big, most as big as you 
are, an3^how, — so, now ! 

William Henry. So you will be, if 3^ou live long 
enough, and go to bed eaii3^, and don't tease. 

Tommy. Will that make me grow? 

William Henry. Certain, sure ! 

Tommy. Well, did 3^ou bring me any thing? 

William Henry. There 3'ou are, teasing ! 

Tommy. Ain't : onl3^ asking. Can't 3'ou answer 
questions ? 

William Henry {opens carpet-bag, and takes out 
a harmonicum : Tommy takes it) . Now, don't 3'ou 
let it blow 3^our brains out ; be careful ! (Tommy 
drops it, and retreats.) 

William Henry. What are yo\^. afraid of ? 

Tommy. Is it a trul3^ pistol ? 

William Henry. Not exactly (takes it out of 
its case), nor a pair of bellows, though 3''0u have to 

blow it. It is a harmonicum. 

4* 



42 WILLIAM HENRY. 

Tommy. A hurricane? {Takes it out, and 
blows it.) 

Lucy Maria {darting in, and looking at Grand- 
ma) . You have no idea, gi-andmother, — you haven't 
the faintest idea, how well you look ! 

Grandma. 'Tis too di-essy for me. It don't feel 
natural on my head. 

Uncle Jacob. Now, I should think that a cap 
would feel more natural on anybody's head than 
anywhere else. 

Lucy Maria. It looks natural, I'm sure it does. 
(William Henry takes Tommy, and pretends to 
whirl him between his two hands, as one does a top.) 

Tommy. I say, Billy, don't I 

William Hem^y. There, Tommj' , that's the way 
the Hottentots do to take the mischief out of boys. 

Aunt Phebe. I think if the Hottentots know any 
way of taking mischief out of boys, and are out of 
work, they might find emplo3'ment in this countr}'. 

Lucy Maria. Come, grandmother, supper is all 
ready. (Grandmother is escorted to her seat at the 
head of the table. Tommy in a high-chair. Lucy 
Maria p>uts a bib around his neck. By-play goes on 
between them during supper.) 

Aunt Phebe. Now, Billy, tell us all about your 
visit to Dorry's. 

Uncle Jacob. Why didn't you have some fried 
eggs, Phebe? 



WILUAM HENRY. 43 

Aunt Phehe. Now, did anj^body ever hear the like? 
Fried eggs ! When they're shedding their feathers, 
and it takes seventy-six fowls to lay a dozen, and 
every egg is worth its weight in currency ! Better 
ask why we don't have cranberry-sauce ! 

Uncle Jacob. There ! I declare, if I didn't forget 
that errand, after all ! 

Aunt Phehe. When I told you to keep saying over 
" cranberries, cranberries," all the way going along ! 

Uncle Jacob. They would 'a' set my teeth on edge 
before I got to Ne'miah's Corner. The very thought 
of 'em is enough. Lucy Maria, please to pass that 
frosted cake. I declare ! I'm sorry I forgot that 
errand ! 

Lucy Maria. Come, Billy, tell us about your 
visit to Dony's. 

William Henry. Well, we got out two miles before 
we got there, — I mean, to the right station, — for 
Dorry wanted to make his sister Maggie think he 
hadn't come. We took a short cut through the fields, 
not very short, and went through every thing; 
my best clothes too ; but it most all rubbed off ; 
there were some boggy places. When we got to the 
house, the cook said everybody'd gone out. Then 
Dorry took me into a jolly great room, and left me. 
Three kinds of cm-tains to every window ! What's 
the use of that ? A good many kinds of chairs ; I 
was going to sit down, but they kept sinking in ; 



44 ^\t:lij:am henry. 

eveiy thing sunk in there. I tried three ; and then 
I thought I would make some bows before the look- 
ing-glass, as you said, grandma. While I was trying 
to, I heard a little noise, and looked around ; and what 
do you thinli? A queen and a princess, all over 
bright colors, and feathers, and shiny silks ! The 
queen, that's Dorr3^'s mother, couldn't think who I was, 
because they had been to the station, and thought we 
hadn't come. So she looked at me hard, — and I 
suppose I was very mudd}^, — and she said, " Were 
you sent of an errand here ? " Before I could answer, 
Dorry came in. I tried to pull my feet behind me, 
and wished I was sitting down, for she kept looking 
toward them ; and I wanted to sit down on the lounge, 
but was afraid it wouldn't bear. She was quite glad 
to see Dorry, but didn't hug him very hard. I know 
why : because she had those good things on. I like 
his father, because he talked to me some. But he's 
always tired : his office tires him. He isn't a very 
big man. He doesn't laugh any. 

Grandma. Is Dorr3^'s mother like Aunt Phebe ? 

William Henry. Lilce Aunt Phebe ? Not one bit ! 
Why, I don't believe she could lift a — -a tea-kettle ; 
not a real one. When she catches hold of her fork, 
she sticks her little finger right up in the air. She 
makes very pretty bows to the compau}^, — sinks 
way down, almost out of sight. She gave us a 
dollar to spend. Wasn't she clever ? Dorr}^ sa3's she 
likes him tip-top — if he'll onl}^ keep out of the v^Sij. 



WILLIAM HENRY. 45 

Lucy Maria. So you would like to live at 
Dorry's house, William Henry? 

WUliam Henry. I guess I'd rather live at our 
house. About every thing in that house is too good 
for a boy. But I tell you, they do have tip-top 
things,-- great pictures, and silver dishes! Now, 
I'll Tell you what I mean to do when I'm a man. I 
shall have a great, nice house, and nice things in 
it ; but the folks shall be like our folks. I shall have 
horses, and a good many silver dishes, and great 
pictures; and grandma shall have a blue easy-chair, 
and sit down to rest. 

Grandma. But, Billy, where are you going to 
get all these fine things ? 

William Henry. Why, don't you remember, 
grandmother, what you wrote down? "What a 
man wants, he can get, if he tries hard enough ; or 
a boy either," you said. 

Uncle Jacob. That's so ! Stick -to that ! 
(Tommy gets up in his high-chair, reaches far for- 
ward, tips over several things, among others, a 
cup, ujhich breaks on the floor; and makes a great 
clatter in his attempt to reach the cake-dish.) 
Lucy Maria. Why, what under the sun are you 
doing. Tommy? 

Tommy. I want that cake— and I've got it. 
I knew I tould, if I tried hard enough. Grandma 
said so ! 



46 WTLIxIAM HBNKY. 



SCENE V. 

AN INTERVAL OF THREE YEARS IS SUPPOSED TO HAVE 
ELAPSED SINCE THE LAST SCENE. 

(Matilda stoning raisins. Lucy Maria cJiopping 
meat for mince-pies. Grandma knitting. Aunt 
Phebe paring apples. Uncle Jacob. Table, 
books, and writing-materials. 

Grandma. It's so hard to have that foe come, 
just when Billy wants a few hundred dollars to 
start him in the world ! 

Lucy Maria. Fires generally happen at the 
wrong time. 

Uncle Jacob. I did hate to see all that corded 
wood go ; but I don't regret it very much on Billy's 
account. Old Squire Brown used to saj^, that five 
hundred dollars was better to give a j^oung fellow 
than five thousand ; and five dollars, than five hun- 
dred ; and five cents, than five dollars. (Lucy 
Maria shouts her chopped meat to Aunt Phebe. 
Aunt Phebe shakes her head.) 

Aunt Phebe. Well, it's a great question to know 



WILLIAM HENRY. 47 

what to do with William Henry, or, rather, to know 
what William Henry shall do with himself. 

Uncle Jacob. On the whole, I think it's best to 
let a boy follow his own inclinations. 

Grandma. After being sure, in his own mind, 
what those inclinations are. {Enter William 
Henry.) 

Uncle Jacob. I want the boy to learn to judge 
for himself, to decide for himself, and, above all, to 
respect himself. 

Aunt Pliebe. Yes, not to be afraid of what the 
world will think of him, but of what he will think 
of himself; else, what's the use of a conscience? 

Lucy Maria. Mother used to say to me, when I 
was a little girl, sometimes, at night, "There's a 
little girl in this house named Luc}^ Maria. You 
know more about her than anybod}' else. Now 
think back, and see how you like Lucy Maria." 

William Henry. Talking about what I'm to do ? 
There are lots of nice things to do. ( Walks around^ 
and helps himself to the raisins, apple, &c.) 

Uncle Jacob. Before making up your mind, it is 
well to look first at the dark side, to think over all the 
disadvantages, all the unpleasant things about the 
business in view. For instance, if you incline to 
be a doctor, don't let your mind dwell on driving up 
to the door in a nice little gig, stepping in with 
youi' little trunk, to stay fifteen minutes, and getting 



48 WILLIAM HENRY, 

two dollars for it. Think of the being called out 
stormy nights, think of never getting a vacation, 
and the dangerous cases, the worry, anxiet}^, and 
responsibility ! 

Aunt Phebe. It's easy enough to look on other 
folks' bright side. 

Matilda. Billj' couldn't be a doctor if he wanted to. 

William Henry. That's so, without I find a 
money -bush growing up in the pastures. 

Uncle Jacob. As to that, a person, as a general 
rule (there may be exceptions) , can be any thing he 
wants to, if he wants to hard enough, and is willing 
to work hard enough. But let's stick to the main 
point, which is, that everj^ emplojment has its un- 
favorable sides. A lawyer, for instance, — just 
think of a lawyer, who has, perhaps, a man's 
whole fortune, perhaps a man's life, depending upon 
his exertions, his skill, his brain-power ! What 
anxious days and nights he must have ! 

Matilda. Ministers have the easiest time. They 
onl}^ work one day in the week. 

Lucy Maria. When do you think they write 
their sermons? 

Matilda. Oh ! that doesn't take but a little while. 

Lucy Maria. But they have to get all their ideas 
from somewhere. 

Matilda. They have all those in their head, don't 
they? 



WILLIAM HENRY. 49 

Aunt PJiebe. I've heard it was pretty hard work 
to think out a new sermon every Sunday. 

Lucy Maria. And there's a whole meeting-house 
full of folks to preach to,— learned folks, stupid 
folks, bright folks, foolish folks, fault-finding folks ; 
and one sermon has to suit all of thfem. 

Grandma, And then there's the grief of pouring 
out heart and soul to folks who will, half of them, 
go off and forget every word, and be just as bad 
and mean and selfish as ever. 

U7ide Jacob. Then there's teaching. That 
seems an easy life to people who sit at the windows, 
and see the schoolmaster go back and forth with 
his good clothes on. Only five or six hours a day, 
and all that pay, they say ; not thinking of the 
time and money it took to fit the man to be a 
teacher. 

Aunt Fhebe. Or the worriments he has. From 
what I've had to manage of my own, I know what it 
must be to manage forty or fifty, no two alike. 
(Lucy Maria shows the tray of meat to Aunt Phebe. 
Aunt Phebe turns a little of it over, and shakes her 
head. Lucy Maria sighs, and goes to chopping 
again.) 

Uncle Jacob. Take the trades. Remember, w^e 
are looking now at the dark side. I don't talk in this 
way to discourage our young man. I wouldn't run 
away from difficulties : I would fight them. I want 



50 WILLIAM HENRY. 

Billy to think of the bad things before making up 
his mind, but never afterward. 

Lucy Maria. And, whatever he decides upon, 
stick to it. Now let's see what Bill}^ wants to be. 
Do 3^ou want to be a poet ? 

William Henry. Well, no. I don't know as I 
should care to be a poet. 

Lucy Maria. Do j'ou want to be a learned man, 
— one of the kind that when they are on the track 
of an idea, or of some unknown creature, will give 
up dinner or supper for the sake of it ? 

William Henry. Not by a long chalk (stealing 
another raisin) . 

Matilda. I know. He wants to be rich, and live 
in that grand house he told about once, with gilt 
books, and blue easy-chairs, and silver dishes, and 
lots of money to give away. 

William Henry. So I do. I want a good, large 
house, and full of every thing nice, so Luc}^ Maria 
can sit down, and draw pictures all the time, and 
Matilda can learn to play on the piano ; and money 
in the bank, just when I'm a mind to send for it. 

Uncle Jacob. Sure of this, are you? Sure? 

William Henry. Yes, sure ! 

Uncle Jacob. Have you looked on the dark side? 

William Henry. Isn't any dark side to being rich. 

Uncle Jacob. A rich man told me once that he 
used to lie awake night after night fretting about his 



WILLIAM HE^^RY. 51 

losses, worrying for fear banks Vv'onld fail, or stocks 
would fall. Besides, lie said he was found fault 
with everlastingly. Everybody expected him to 
give. His poor relations thought he ought to sup- 
port them ; and, the more favors he did, the more 
curses he got. At last he gave away the biggest 
part of his money to be rid of the care of it, bought 
a little place, and settled down with a snug library 
about him, and a fiddle, to take comfort. 

LiLcy llaria. Then there's that lady Cousin Myra 
told about, who inherited a large quantity of- silver- 
ware, — solid silver. The house was twice broken 
into ; and, after a good man}^ nights of lying awake, 
she hired a watchman. Then she lay awake to watch 
the watchman ; and at last packed up the silver, and 
sent it to the bank, and there it staid the rest of 
her life. 

Uncle Jacob. Well, Billy, are you willing to run 
the risk of having to take care of a hundred thou- 
sand dollars? 

William He^iry. That's just about what I'm 
willing to do, and more too. 

Uncle Jacob. Then, one thing is settled. You 
know what you want. Next question is, " How will 
you get it ? in what business ? " That question is 
settled too, I suppose. 

William Henry. Well, Dorry and I have talked 
it all over. I'm going to be a clerk in some great 
wholesale firm ; begin low, and keep going up. 



52 WILLIAM HENRY. 

Grandma. "Well, it's one thing to begin at the 
bottom to go up, and another to keep going up. 

Uncle Jacob. That's so. 

Aunt Phebe. Now, when the unpleasant things 
come up, it won't do, Billy, to think that some other 
business might be easier, or might bring in money 
sooner. 

Matilda. How in the world is Billy going to pay 
his way in the city ? 

Aunt Phebe. Yes. How much money will it take ? 
Let's make some kind of a reckoning. 

Lucy Maria. Father and I have been counting 
up ; and beside what Billy earns, which is one hundred 
the first year, and a hundred added every year, it 
will cost six hundred dollars. 

Aunt Phebe (all express surprise without speaking) . 
So you have .been talking of this before ! 

Unde Jacob. Well, it's no harm to calculate 
expenses, even if you don't go. I'll agree to find two 
hundred of the money, and, when the Corry-pond Lot 
sells, two hundred more ; but we don't know when 
that will happen. And that isn't all, either. Now, 
how will you manage it, Billy? 

Lucy Maria. I wouldn't wait. I'd begin to pile 
up the money to-morrow. 

William Henry. How? I'm bound to earn my 
own way. I don't want anybody to help me. 

Lucy Maria. Oh ! go to work and earn. Work 



WILLIAM HENKY. 53 

between schools. Work vacations. Work evenings. 
Pick huckleberries, pitch hay, shovel gravel, peddle 
essences, go round getting subscribers to something, 
or grinding something. I wouldn't rest till I got 
where I wanted to be ! Don't you know about 
Caesar, — that great Caesar you read about in 
history ? 

William Henry. Well, what about Caesar? 

Lucy Maria. When he was bound off to conquer a 
city, and came to a river, he swam it ; never waited 
for a bridge to be built, but swam it ! (Lucy Maria 
puts away the tray of meat ; takes pencil andpaj^er, 
and begins draioi^ig.) 

Uncle Jacob. When I was a young man, and went 
a-courtin' — Now, what are you all laughing at? 
Don't you s'pose I went a-courtin' once ? 

Matilda. See mother blushing ! 

Uncle Jacob. What do you want to blush for, 
mother ? 

Aunt Pliebe. Don't know, I'm sure. I have never 
had any reason to blush for that young man ! 

William Henry. Good for you ! 

Uncle Jacob. Pay attention. Now I've got to 
begin again. One time, when I went a-courtin' — she 
lived in a kind of a lonesome valley, you know, three 
or four miles from everywhere — 

Lucy Maria. Yes, I know. Where Aunt Myra 
lives now. 

5* 



54 WILUAM HEKRY. 

Matilda. But 'tisn't very lonesome there now. 

William Henry. Come, who's telling this story? 

Uncle Jacob (talcing his hat) . Oh, well ! K you 
don't want to hear — 

Lucy Maria and Matilda. Oh, we do ! we do ! 
Sit down ! Go on ! Dear Father Jacob, you lovely 
Daddy Carver ! We'll be like the dead hours o' 
night ! 

Uncle Jacob {sitting down). Now, how far had I 
got? 

Lucy Maria. To three or four miles from every- 
where. 

Uncle Jacob. Why, no. I hadn't got there : I'd 
only started. 

Matilda. You hadn't quite started, but we'll play 
you had. 

Uncle Jacob. There wasn't much play about it. I 
started one afternoon, one cold afternoon in the 
winter-time, up to Warren's Valley. Went that 
day, because there'd been a heavy fall of snow, and 
we couldn't work. The men who had been tr^^ing 
to dig told me the roads were drifted up way over 
the fences, and that in the valley 'twould be over my 
head. I've thought of that day many and man}^ a 
time since. Had my doubts about getting there, 
but told the men I'd go as far as I could, any wa^^ 
"Time enough to turn back," saj'S I, "when you 
can't get any farther ! " 



WILLIAM HENRY. 55 

Lucy Maria. That's what I say when they tell me 
the walking isn't fit for a woman. I start ; and, when 
I come to a bad place, I kite right across on the tip 
ends of my toes before the walking knows I'm there ! 
'Most always get there when they say I can't. 
(Lucy Maria takes another sheet of paper., and 
draws.) 

Grandma. 'Tis wonderful how ways are pro- 
vided sometimes, when you'd think 'twould be a 
thing impossible. 

Matilda. It is to be hoped your girl was glad to 
see you. 

Uncle Jacob. She knows best. 

Au7it Phebe. You don't expect me to remember so 
long ago. Besides, 'twas a busy time of day with 
us, — supper getting, fritters frying, milkpails com- 
ing in. 

Matilda. Caught, caught! If you don't re- 
member, how do you know what was going on? 
Did you see him ? 

Uncle Jacob. Oh, yes ! She stood in the doorway, 
watching out. 

Aunt Phebe. Oh, I only went there to — 

Lucy Maria. To let the cat in ! 

Matilda. When you saw her standing there, 
wasn't you glad ? 

William Henry. What a silly question ! Course 
he was. 



56 WILLLAM HENRY. 

Matilda. How do you know? Are you glad 
when you go to see Maggie ? 

William Henry. Course I am. But I don't ever 
go. 

Matilda. Mebby you'd like to ! 

William Henry. Course I would. You won't ever 
have to stand in a doorway- after a snowstorm to 
watch for Sto. Thompson ! His boots are too thin. 
His hands would be cold. 

Lucy Maria. Now stop quarrelling, you two ! 
{Puts afeic more touches to her drawing.) There ! I 
wonder if that is a good likeness of father. (Shows 
a sketch of a traveller^ head only visible above the 
snow. All crotcd around it.) 

William Henry. How his hair stands up ! 

Lucy Maria. That's the wind tossing it, and say- 
ing to him " things unutterable." 

Uncle Jacob. Not a bit unutterable. It was telling 
me to go ahead. And 3'ou may make just as much 
fun as you're a mind to, but that day's work was a 
lesson to me ever after. Don't know how many 
times, when taking hold of a desperate job, I've said 
to m3'self, ' ' Begin ! start ! Time enough to turn 
back when you can't get any farther." 

Lucy Maria. Here, Billy, I'll make you a present 
of these pictures. Put them under your looking- 
glass, where 3'ou can see them ever}^ time 3'ou brush 
your hair. Here's the one about Caesar ; a furious 



WILLIAM HEKRY. 57 

stream, in the middle of which is a warrior, swim- 
ming across with might and main ; in the distance, 
the towers of the city he is bound to conquer. 

Aunt PJiebe. What's that on his head ? 

Lucy Maria, That's his crown. Don't you see 
the peaks? 

William Henry. What's he going to do with a 
fishing-pole ? 

Lucy Maria. That isn't a fishing-pole : that's his 
spear. 

Uncle Jacob. And what's that on his face? Some- 
thing to protect it ? 

Lucy Maria. Dear me ! Can't you tell a Roman 
nose? 

Matilda. What is that coming out of his mouth ? 

Lucy Mai'ia. Follow it up, and see. 

Matilda. '' Never wait for a bridge ! " 

Lucy Maria. Now, William Henry, do you go 
this minute, and hang them under j^our looking-glass. 
\ William Henry. All right ! \_Exit. 

Lucy Maria. Billy is looking low-spirited, and 
what's to be done ? Shall he go back to school ? 

Grandma. I do feel concerned about Billy. This 
noon he never touched the pie, and 'twas cut. I 
never knew Bilty to let a cut pie go b}", before. 

Matilda. Incapacity was the true reason, I guess, 
grandma. 

Aunt Phebe. No : I do think the boy is worried 



58 WILLIAI^I HENRY. 

and plagued in mind. He is anxious to go right into 
some active business. His mind is full of it, and he 
can't think of any thing else. Whatever he goes 
into, he goes in all over. 

Grandma. 'Twas always so with Billy. If it was 
turtles, the back-j^ard was full of turtles, and I had 
to keep a broom in the entry to keep them back. If 
'twas picking up old iron, he'd tip over all the ash- 
barrels to look for old nails ; and in kite-time there'd 
be paste on every door-latch all over the house. I do 
hope, that, if Billy gets interested in money-making, 
it will not draw him into narrow, mean ways. 

Aunt Pliebe. No : I feel sure. I've watched him 
with a motive ; and I've trembled for fear of seeing 
him take advantage, for fear of not being able to 
respect him, for fear of something in him, — some- 
thing that went bias. 

Grandma. But can you tell by these little matters 
what he'll do by and by ? 

Aunt PJiebe. Yes, you can. Five cents can show 
a thousand dollars' worth of meanness. 

Uncle Jacob. That's true. 

Aunt PJiebe. The greatest hinderancein his way, 
is his being so quick to flare up. He can't bear much, 
and he'irhave to. 

Lucy Maria. "Well, I think it is best for William 
Henry to leave school, and go to earning. 

Aunt Pliebe. I don't know but it is. You see, 



WILLIAM HENRY. 59 

because he leaves school is no reason why he should 
stop getting an education. 

Grandma. He will have a great many advan- 
tages in the city, if he is inclined to take them ; and 
I think he will be. 

Lucy Maria. Shall we say, then, that Billy shall 
wait until he has e^irned enough to pay at least two 
years' expenses? 

Aunt Phebe. I'm afraid Billy will get discouraged, 
or unsettled in his mind, before that. For my part, 
I'm willing Jacob should sell that piece of land, and 
give Billy what it brings, right out and out. 

Uncle Jacob. If a boy's purpose could be so easily 
shaken, or, I might almost say, could be shaken at all, 
that boy will never succeed as a business man. What 
I want is, that Billy should get used to clearing away 
difficulties. Six months' practice of this kind is a 
good apprenticeship to any sort of business. As for 
outside names, and rich men's names, and greatmen's 
patronage, I don't believe in any thing of the sort. 

Liccy Maria {taking out her 7nillinery). In 
fact, 3^ou don't Avant Billy boosted up, or hoisted up, 
or sent up on a kite. 

Uncle Jacob. Just so. 

Aunt Phebe. Well, then, try Billy a^^ear, and let 
him work it ; and at the end of that time, if he has 
done well, let him go to the city himself, and try for 
a place ; and, if he succeeds, I've no doubt we can 



60 WILUAM HENRY. 

make up what's necessary. I'll save all my butter 
mone}', and I sha'n't get a black silk dress next year, 
as I meant to, nor put quite so many plums in the 
pudding. {Looks at Uncle Jacob, lolio draws a long 
face.) 

Lucy Maria (Jiolding up a bonnet she is trim- 
ming.) I believe I'm a born milliner : I'm going to 
have the finest bonnet in town. Took it down to 
the milliner 3'esterday to fix over, and she looked at 
it in that sort of contemptuous wa}^, as onl}^ a mil- 
liner can. " Want that done over? that can't be 
done over," said she. " Of course it can," said I : 
" it always has been." And I brought it home, and 
we'll see. l shall save something out of that mil- 
liner's clutches for Billj^, any way ! 



WILLIAM HENRY. 61 



SCENE VI. 

A TEAR AND A HALF HAS ELAPSED SINCE THE LAST 

SCENE. 

Evening at Uncle Jacob's house. Lucy Makia bend- 
ing over an open trunks 2mtting in garments^ and 
wiping her eyes. Occasionally takes a cooky from 
a plateful, and puts it into the toe of a blue yarn 
sock, and tucks it into the trunk. 

Poor Billy! He's worked hard enough this last 
year ! Now he's fairly oflT for that place in the city. 
I'm glad he had the spunk to hunt it up, and make 
the terms for himself. Didn't have much trouble, 
either. (^Stands up, and shakes out a pair of pants, 
and puts some ginger-snaps in the pocket. Folds 
a piece of paper imth a sketch on it, and puts it in his 
coat-pocket.) Billy always did like sitrpmes. How 
we shall miss him ! ( Takes out her handkerchief, and 
wipes her eyes and nose vehemently. Enter Grandma 
sad and tearful, with a box of salve, and some rolls 
of linen.) 

Grandma. Here's some carrot-salve, Lucy Maria, 



62 WILLIAM HENRY. 

and some old linen. Billy might cut his fingers, and 
have nobody — ( Puts her handkerch ief to her eyes. ) 

Lucy Maria. Just the thing, grandma, only I'm 
afraid it is putting temptation in his way ; you make 
cutting lingers too pleasant a business. \^Exit 
Grandma. Enter Matilda, sad, with red nose.~\ 

Lucy Maria. Why, Matilda ! Your face looks as 
if it had been caught in a shower ! 

Matilda. So it has ; for I've just been up in Billy's 
room, and every thing there does have such a good- 
by look ! Oh, how we shall miss him ! This place 
won't seem like the same place when — he — don't 
belong — to it! {Weeps. J^ucy Maria and Ma- 
tilda loeep and sob on each other's shoulder.) 

Liicy Maria {solemnly) . You know, we agreed to 
be cheerful this evening. 

Matilda. I know it, but then — 
{Enter Aunt Phebe, radiant and smiling, with a 
pair of blue woollen stockings) . 

Aunt Phebe. Here's one more pair of woollen 
stockings. I kept them to run the heels. Is 
there room enough for them? Boys away from 
home can't have too many stockings, or too stout, 
especially when they're hard on them. Here's 
Hannah Jane's letter. Something new for Hannah 
Jane to think of doing. But she said she had 
a few words to say to Billy, and wanted it put 
in the bottom of the trunk. And now, girls. 
don't you be foolish, 3'ou two. Consider, 'twould be 



WILLIAM HENRY. 63 

worse if he conldu't find a place, or if he wasn't 
fit for any. It has a good many bright sides to it. 
Come, don't be foolish ! 

Matilda. Some other folks have been foolish, I 
guess, by the looks of their face ! I guess some- 
body's got a red nose. 

{Enter Grandma quietly. Aunt Phebe wipes her 
eyes hastily.) 

Aunt Phebe. Pshaw ! What do you want to 
talk nonsense for ? Don't you know we've all got to 
be lively to-night, to keep grandmother up ? Come, 
Lucy Maria, don't you give out ! What's the use 
of having a nonsensical one in the family if she gives 
out when it comes to the pinch ? There ! Your 
father's coming. He don't feel so altogether calm 
as he makes for. I know him of old. 
{Enter Uncle Jacob, mournfully ^ with a kettle of 
molasses.) 

Uncle Jacob. Come, it's best to have something 
going on, if it's only a kettle of molasses. You just 
step into the little kitchen, Matilda, and put it on 
the stove. 

Matilda. To be sure ! We'll put up some 
molasses-cand}^ for Billy. 

Lucy Maria. Better pour it warm into an old tin 
mustard-box, and then getting it out will take up 
his mind. [Exit Matilda. 

Uncle Jacob . Now , what are you all worrying about 



64 WILLIAM HENRY. 

Billy for? I never saw au}^ thing like you' women- 
folks for worrying ! Nothing to worr}' about ! 'Tain't 
as if we never expected William Henry home on a 
visit. And the city isn't such an altogether awful 
place, either ! A person coming to the countr}' can 
walk over the hills, in the woods and fields, and 
other pleasant places, or he can walk in the 
quagmires. And just so in the citj^ : there are all 
kinds of places, and all kinds of people. A j^oung 
man isn't obliged to go in the mud. {Enter 
Matilda.) 

Lucy Maria. True enough ! From all I hear, I 
should think the city is something like our buttery, 
all in shelves, and a fellow ma}' stay upon just which- 
ever shelf he chooses. If he wants to use up his 
leism-e in amusements, he can. That's one shelf. 
If he wants to spend it in low company, he can. 
That's another shelf. If he wants to become inter- 
ested in ideas, he can. That's another shelf. 
There's the scientific shelf, and the musical shelf, 
and the artist's shelf, and the religious shelf, and so. 
on. Mr. Galloon sa3^s there's no end to the privi- 
leges of the cit}^ A young fellow can make of him- 
self whatever he chooses. Some don't choose to 
make any thing of themselves, but that is their own 
fault. Free reading-rooms, free libraries, free 
lectures, free drawing-schools (don't I wish I could 
go to some of them ! ) , free evening-classes, free 



WILLIAM HENRY. 65 

rooms for social meetings, — why, the city is no 
more a bad place than it is a good place ! A j^oung 
man can find and keep as good company as he 
chooses. 

Matilda. No need of Billy feeling lonely very 
long. 

Aunt Pliehe. No : he'll soon find friends. Every- 
body will like Billy. 

Matildti, And they'll invite him to their houses, 
likely as not ; and I don't doubt he'll soon begin to 
feel quite acquainted. 

Grandma. But that won't seem like home! 
There's no place lilie home. And the folks won't 
seem like our folks. 

Lucy Maria. I don't want they should. I want 
we should seem better to him than anybody else. 

Uncle Jacob. That's just what we all wish ; wish 
him to feel truly that there's no place like home, — 
to look forward to coming home. All these young 
men who seem so adrift, in cities, are not really 
adrift. There are anchors out which strike home ; 
only you can't see the cables. 

Aunt Pliehe. Now, Billy, and Dorry, and Bobby 
Short will be here in a few minutes with the Two 
Betseys. They've been out to return Miss Slade's 
call ; and we mustn't look so sober. 

Lucy Maria. It Was so good of Dorry, and Bobby 
Short, to come up and spend this last day or two with 



6g WILLIAM HENRY 

Billy ! And I think the Two Betse3^s have had a real 
good time during then* visit here, — don't you, 
mother? — for all it was so unexpected. Just like 
Billy to bring 'em without a minute's warning ! 

Aunt Pliebe. Just like you, you mean, Lucy 
Maria, to get up such a surprise for us ; and I must 
say you did it well. 

Grandma. Well, I must say I've enjoyed seeing 
these two good women. I've enjoyed every moment 
they have been here. I'm always glad to see any- 
body that's been good to our Billy ; and, if ever he 
had two good friends, they're the two. 

Aunt Phebe. Hush ! I hear the gate click : they're 
coming. Now, all look natural ! Don't look so 
sober ! Knit away, grandmother ! Laugh, some of 
you ! Billy's been mopy all day. 
{Enter Billy and the Two Betseys , Bobby Short, 
and DoRRY.) 

Lucy Maria. Good evening, again ! Do let me 
take your things right here ! Don't go up stairs to 
take them off! {They ta'ke off their bonnets and 
shaivls, and fold them precisely .) 

Aunt Phebe. Did you have a good call ? (Billy 
sets chairs for them.) 

Other Betsey. Oh, yes ! A proper good call. It 
does seem quite like our young days to go round 
seeing folks ; don't it, 3'ou? {to Lame Betsey.) 

Lame Betsey. Sakes alive ! It don't seem a week 



WILLIAM HENRY. 67 

since we went down, that evening, to see Jemima 
Green — 

Other Betsey. Just as she was starting to go 
'wa}^ out A\^est into York State! Well, I never! 
How the time does fly ! 

Lame Betsey. But this does set me back, sure 
enough ! 

(Lucy Maria goes out with the Two Betseys' wraps. 
They sit down.) 

Uncle Jacob. Hoav's that molasses, Matilda? 

Matilda. Oh ! {Runs out of the room.) 

William Henry. Come, fellows, and see my 
pigeons. They've gone to roost now, and you can 
see them all together. \_Exit William Henry, 
DoRRY, and Bobby Short.] 

Lame Betsey. How kind and thoughtful Lucy 
Maria is ! 

Grandma. Yes. But jom never read me that 
letter she wrote you, inviting you to come here. 

Other Betsey. No, Betsey, you never did ! Now, 
you just read it to her, and let her see what a 
"beater" for persuadin' Lucy Maria is ! 

Lame Betsey (reads from a letter she takes from 
her pocket). 

My dear Two Betseys. 

We never saw you, but we believe in you with all 
our hearts : that means sometiiing more than just 



68 WILUAM HENRY. 

believing, doesn't it? — means something warmer; 
means something more kindly. But we want to see, 
as well as to believe. Seeing is believing, but be- 
lieving isn't seeing. Now, we want both of jou to 
come and make us a visit. Do, won't you, if jou. 
can't stay more than two days ? But I think it will 
take all of a week to get thoroughly acquainted. We 
should all be so glad ! You have no idea how it 
would please grandmother. Grandmother ! why, 
she would cover her entry with cloth of gold, if she 
had any, for the feet of those who had been so kind 
to her Bill}^ ! Any way, she'd lay down her new 
braided rug. I've heard her wish a great many 
times that she could be acquainted with you ; and 
mother was saying, onl}^ the other day, that she did 
wish she could see Bill's Two Betse^^s. Now, I 
know just what your excuses will be : so I'll set them 
up for 3'ou, and knock 'em all over. We'll call 'em 
four pins. 

1. Can't leave the shop. 

2. Too old. 

3. Can't afford it. 

4. Shall make too much trouble. 

Now see them fall down ! You can get Gapper 
Sky Blue, and Rosy, to stay in the shop while 3'ou're 
gone. (One down.) As for being old, that's no 
excuse, so long as j'ou're both in tolerable health. 
On the contrary, it's a strong reason for coming ; 



WILLIAIkl HENRY. 69 

for, the older you are, the less time you will have to 
enjoy this pleasant world, and especially us pleasant 
people ( !) , and smaller chance we have of knowing 
you. Now, it stands to reason, that, if there's but 
little time left, you ought to make the most of it. 
(Two down.) ' Thirdly, please find enclosed two 
package-tickets ; and be sure and fetch with you a 
large trunk, and we'll cover the remaining expenses 
with butter, beans, or other farm-things of the 
eatable sort that we can give, and not feel it a bit, 
and be glad to. I know just what father's and 
mother's ideas are about such matters. They 
believe that things grow to be eaten, and given 
awa}^ ; and, if they take comfort giving away, why 
can't you let 'em take it? Pray don't grudge them 
that little bit of comfort. Now, if you have got a 
great box of money hid under your floor, even if 
3'ou have, I know you won't take offence at my 
offer, but will only look at my motives. An}^ way, 
there are three down. As for trouble, you wouldn't 
make much, three of us healthy females at home 
most of the time, all able to work ; and I do like to 
stir up the good things. I'm so glad one of j^ou is 
lame ! On our own account, I mean. Mother ssijs 
'tis very good to have an invalid in the family, 
makes the rest more kind, more unselfish, and better 
every wa}^, than they would be otherwise ; but, you 
see, there isn't one of us willing to make herself an 



70 WILLIAM HENRY. 

invalid for the sake of the rest being better. (Four 
down.) Now all of 3'our four pins are knocked 
over ; and 3'ou've nothing to do but put on your 
things, and come. Ko matter what sort of things 
the}" are : we don't dress up ourselves ; couldn't, if 
we wanted to. So there's nobody hete to be afraid 
of. 

There are not many people, especially many 
strangers, whom I would urge so to come. But I 
know you are exact!}" the ones we should enjoy a 
visit from. We have no great attractions to hold 
out. A hearty welcome you will be sure of; and, as 
for Billy, I don't know but he would do what he 
sometimes threatens, viz., jump over his own head, 
which feat is becoraing more difficult every day that 
he lives. And, as for being strangers, you're not : 
we've known you ever so long. And, by the way, 
my calling you the Two Betseys, you won't mind, 
will you? for Billy never told us any other 
name. 

Trusting to see you soon, I remain, very affection- 
ately your friend, 

Lucy Mama Carver, 

{Billy's Cousin.) 

Now, don't you see how we couldn't help a- 
comin' ? 



WILLIAM HEKRY. 71 

(Tommy comes in playing on a harmonicum, 
(march time) . Enter Billy, Dorry, and Bobby 
Short, and begin a polka, seizing one and another 
for a partner. Matilda returns. Lucy Maria 
enters.) 

Lucy Maria. Why not have a cotillion? 

William Henry. That's the talk! One, two, 
three, four, five, six, seven, eight. Aunt Phebe, 
come, you'll dance, won't you now? Course you 
will. 

Matilda. Yes. You and father. Do, now! 
Come, you can all hop round. Anybody can just 
hop around. 

Uncle Jacob. Hop round ! I dance : I don't hop 
round ! Don't you think I can dance ? I'll leave it 
to mother. ( Walks up to Other Betsey, bows, and 
offers his arm.) 

Aunt Phebe. Well, I believe you can do some- 
thing of the stirring Idnd, but I didn't know there 
was any special name to it. 

Lucy Maria. I've made up my mind to have 
every one of you upon the floor, and start a contra- 
dance. Come, mother. Come, everj^body. Come, 
Miss Betsey, you're as young as any of us. {All 
are busy securing partners.) 

Other Betsey. Well, I do feel as young as ever 
I did. When I was a gal, folks thought, being 



72 WTTiTiTAJM HENRY. 

weakly, I should never live to grow old ; and I 
never have. 

William Henry. Hurrah for you ! Shall I have 
the pleasure? (Makes a bow, and offers his arm.) 

Other Betsey. But I guess my dancing days 
are over. (Bashfully.) 

Uncle Jacob. No, j^oung man, not quite so fast. 
I spoke first. 

(Lucy JMaeia mounts a chair at the side of the 
stage, with comb and paper.) 

Lucy Maria. Now, I'm committee of arrange- 
ments, floor-manager, and band of music, and dan- 
cing-master. Attend to me. 

(Lajie Betsey sits in her chair r. f.) 

They take their places thus : — • 

Uncle Jacob, Other Betsey, 

DoRRY, Matilda, 

Bobby Short, Aunt Phebe, 

William Henry, Grandma. 

Lucy Marla begins ''•Fisher's Hornpipe" on the 
comb and paper, calls out the figures, jumps down 
from her chair, now and then, to set things right, 
or to twitch Tommy out of the way, who is always 
under foot. Willi a.m Henry shows off his dan- 
cing-school airs, with extraordinary bows. Grand- 



"WILLIAM HENKY. 73 

MA dances with little, fine steps. Other Betsey 
dances in very stiff, angular fashion, going up 
and down like a churn-handle, and branching out 
in her extensive balances to the right or left. 
Uncle Jacob dances in a dignified manner, taJdng 
the steps very carefully, and putting in double- 
shuffles. After a while it comes to a general con- 
fusion; down the middle, up outside, turning and 
balancing, all going on at the same time. 

Curtain Falls. 



THE "WILLIAM HENRY" BOOKS. 



BY MRS. A. M. DIAZ. 

• « 

THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS. 

WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 

Each in one volume i6mo. Illustrate3. Price $1.50. 

*#* For sale by all Booksellers. Sent, postpaid, on receipt of price., by 
the Publishers, 



JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO., Boston. 



WILLIAM HENRY. 



DRAMATIZED FROM THE BOOKS OF MRS. A. .M. DIAZ, 



'•Thu William He.xrv Lhtteks/' Ax\d ''William Hexrv 
! AXD HIS Friends," 



MRS. GEO. L. CHANEY. 



with the permission of the AUTHOR. 




BOSTON: 
JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY, 

(late TICKXOK ii FIELDS, AND FIELDS, OSt.OOD, & CO.) 
1875. 



Writings of Mrs. A. M. Diaz. 



THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS, 

Illustrated by William Henry. $1.50. 
'' This series of really racy and characteristic specimens of the episto- 
lary effusions of a rustic school-boyis a very happy hit in the field of 
juvenile literature. There is a superabundance of humor ; and there are, 
at the same time, touches of true nobility, and honesty of character, 
which cannot fail to make the book profitable, as well as pleasant read- 
ins." — New- York Times. 



\ WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 

Illustrated. $1.50. 
"A sequel to the 'Letters;' in which, in a delightful, rolhcking style, 
Mr. Fry gives account of a vacation spent at Summer-Sweeting place, and 
' of the jovial goings-on of William Henry's home-folks." — B^^ffalo 
i Caurier. 



LUCY MARIA. 

Illustrated. $1.50. 
■ ■ ■ 

j " Mrs. Abby Morton Diaz has develop^ed a talent of her own for vvriting 

I the most sparkling, humorous, and sensible letters, and wrapping up a 

! story in them. 'Lucy Maria' is a series of very bright letters, with a 

j story running along in them." — Hartford Conrant. 



THE KING'S LILY AND ROSEBUD. 

Illustrated. $1.50. 

•'A pure little fair;,- story, extollin;; above all virtues love, an amplifi- 
cation in childish text of tlie Scripture's assertion, • The greatest of these 
is charity.' " — The Standard [Chicago). 



*^* For sale by all Booksellers. Sent, postpaid, on receipt of price, by 
the Publishers, 

JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO., Boston. 



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